


Kyoutani Kentaro

by leonheart2012



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Seriously guys, Sexual Abuse, Thoughts of Suicide, and a hopeful ending, i don't think there's anything else, just abuse, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonheart2012/pseuds/leonheart2012
Summary: (I honestly can't think of a title for this)(I feel like this should come with a huge warning sign. This work is mostly just depictions of abuse, in so many forms. Sorry in advance. I just...after watching Haikyuu, the one thought that always sticks with me is; there's no way that Kentarou hasn't suffered some form of abuse or bullying. It's kind of become an obsession, I guess, wondering what exactly he's been through to turn him like that.)Kentarou's home life is really really shitty, and this fic will show you why.This is really sad, and about abuse, the whole way through. I just want you all to know. ABUSE, in block letters, stamped across the front page.
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 100





	Kyoutani Kentaro

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have a bunch of other fics I should be writing? Absolutely! Am I even looking at them? No, but I really hope you all enjoy this absoluely tragic look into the life of Kyoutani Kentarou.

His face and hands lay smushed flat against the window. It was cold, and his breath fogged the glass, but the puppies rolled around so playfully. Kentarou couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Dad? Can we get a dog?”

He hadn’t known, then, the dangers of asking a question like that. His father had grunted, turning away from the pet shop window, tugging Kentarou along after him, not caring that he fell and scraped his knees.

When they got home, he had been thrown into the wall. “You’re enough trouble as it is, without asking for things! Go to your room. Your mother will be home soon. Do your homework for her.”

Kentarou had scrambled up the stairs, terrified, and sat in his room with shaking shoulders, refusing to let the tears fall onto his sheets. His homework got done quickly, with messy handwriting, but when his mother did eventually come home, she barely glanced at it.

“Good job, Kentarou.” She said, ruffling his hair. “Make dinner for your father and I? I’m so tired.” She floated up the stairs like a ghost, her hands dragging at her skinny arms like weights.

He had taken Kentarou to a volleyball game, once, when he had been feeling guilty about something. He had come home with bruised knuckles, a sad look on his face.

“Let’s go.” He’d said, and Kentarou had jumped off the couch like it had suddenly gotten red-hot, putting his shoes on. They had driven to the gymnasium where the match had been playing, and he had watched in awe as the ball sped from one end of the court to the other. The next week, he had signed up to the school team.

Getting along with the other kids was hard. They asked questions that made him push back, made him react violently. Somehow, he knew it would be bad if anyone found out about his home life. So when the other kids asked whether he wanted to play after school, his only answer could be a scowl, because anything else would be too much information.

Thankfully, they stopped asking. It was lonely, but no one ever knew, and that was good. He kept playing volleyball, and that was amazing. And he gradually learned that it was better to be the strongest in the room.

His father left. It hadn’t taken long, after he’d started playing volleyball. Kentarou had, for a brief moment, thought – hoped – that it would mean that he could make friends. But they were all scared of him.

Angry, he sank deeper into the personality they tagged him with. He dyed his hair, he started fights, he was stubborn and didn’t listen. And gradually, he came to think he actually _was_ like that.

Until Yahaba slammed him into the wall of the gym.

Kentarou had never thought that it would make that much of a difference to his mother if his father was there or not. They barely touched, and when they did, it was always a violent clash. She would rake her nails down the side of his face, he would slam her face into the wall. It was a give and take of blows, until the silence descended like a guillotine.

There were never any tears. His mother would drag herself from the floor into the bathroom, emerging to look like a fallen angel; hair perfectly fixed, face unmarked, lips plump and coloured. She would leave wearing a tight dress and go to work.

His father would stomp around the house, making Kentarou flinch. But he almost never looked his son’s way. It was like he didn’t even exist. He would snatch a beer from the fridge and chug it, throwing the first bottle away before storming away with another.

And thenthe silence slunk back in. The silence that bled from the walls, ate away at his nerves, clawed at his throat until he couldn’t breathe, so he would tip toe out of the house and go down to the adult’s courts to play for a while. He would come home after dark, crawling up the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked. His bed would always be waiting for him, empty and cold.

It had been months since he’d felt the touch of another human. It didn’t matter, because no one would ever touch him again. He would make sure of it; after every fight, he added another spike to his walls.

She had come to him not even two months after his father had left. He had heard her crying in the few days after, the shock of it too much for her to bear.

_Another woman. A fight._

After the crying came a period of silent contemplation. A time where she couldn’t even get out of bed. She pleaded sickness to her bosses. She took pills by the dozen, all at once, being knocked out until she took even more.

_Pictures on a phone screen shoved into his face. Screaming._

Finally, she was back to normal, except she would never pay any attention to Kentarou. No speech was uttered in his direction. Plates of food magically appeared before her. She ate them without saying thank you. Left the dishes to be swept away by a fairy in the night. No glances were cast his way. Even accidental brushes didn’t happen anymore. He became a ghost, haunting his mother. Until that one night, two months after everything.

_Dishes thrown on the ground, shattered. Tears._

She climbed on top of him and kissed his mouth in a strange way, somehow different from every time she’d kissed him before. She had reached between his legs and stroked over the flesh that got firmer when exposed to that sort of thing, stuck it inside of herself and rolled her hips until she clenched around him.

_A woman coming to the door; young, pretty. A disgusted look thrown his way. The door slamming shut._

Kentarou had hidden from it all, run away to the volleyball court. It had been winter, when almost no one was out. He frequently found himself at the park instead, thinking about the cold, icy water of the pond and how long it would take to freeze to death, how long it would take to drown.

Eventually, he had trudged home, not wanting to care if he tracked slushy mud into the house but caring anyway. Taking his shoes off by the door and rolling his pants up, tugging off his wet socks.

The wet slap of his feet on the floor had echoed through the house, alerting no one. Slap. Silence. Slap. Silence. Silence. Silence…

His back made contact with the wall, and his eyes went wide. It had been a while since anyone had touched him like this. Iwaizumi was always gentle in their matches against each other. His mother only touched him when the special men weren't around, and only in _that_ place. The special men avoided him as though they would gain responsibility of him if they even so much as looked at him.

Yahaba told him to respect his elders, and Kentarou was so surprised, he had no idea what to say. It felt like someone had shaken him awake. He blinked, and his gaze fell on Yahaba’s face, his silvery brown hair, locked with his brown orbs. He was rather plain, an ordinary kid from an ordinary school with nothing to set him especially apart from anyone else. But in that moment, Kentarou felt as though he was the very air.

“I thought you were shallower than that.” It was the only thing he could say. And his hackles raised when Yahaba didn’t deny it.

She bought alcohol. There was never any food in the house, but amber liquid was always flowing through her lips. Whether it was beer or whisky, there was always a bottle in her hand, always half-empty.

It was better than when the men didn’t want her. She would crawl into Kentarou’s bed and ride him until she shuddered her release, and it was worse than being ignored because he was being _used_. No shower could save him from the dirty feeling after having her hands on him.

He became a brick wall, forcing everyone else out. Only he was allowed to know. Only he was allowed to examine his wounds. Only he was allowed to see the vulnerability.

He had built his walls thick, tall, and strong. Or so he had thought.

The feeling of a fist in his shirt, his back connecting with a wall, brought them crashing to the ground.

Their house looked awful. The bottles kept piling up; he couldn’t keep up with the amount she drank. He had to put her into a fetal position so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit and die. He had to do the washing, the dishes, the cooking, everything. He was only thirteen, but he was keeping a household afloat.

Barely.

She touched him. Only at night, but she touched him. The men didn’t come anymore. It was just the two of them. Her bed became a thing of the past, abandoned for his. She curled around him and kissed his cheeks, his forehead. He knew she wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy either, but he didn’t know how to fix it.

He loved her. She was his mother. How could he not? And yet...she touched him. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw.

The park’s pond was frozen over again.

How long does it take someone to drown?

He never acted on it. He was too angry. He wanted to make someone feel the pain he felt. So he developed sharp edges, forced his way through crowds, glared at anyone and picked meaningless fights.

Her hand found his against the sheets and brought it up to her throat. He squeezed. Always obedient. Always doing whatever she said. How far would he go?

His world view had narrowed. He only loved volleyball. His grades slipped. He was constantly getting in trouble, but none of it mattered as long as his palm could connect with a volleyball.

_Bam!_

The impact reverberated through his spine. His eyes widened, lifted, and someone was _there_.

They lost the match, but it hardly mattered to Kentarou. For a few minutes, it had felt like he had connected. He had been put into a game of volleyball and he had listened to his teammates. He had been _touched_ by them. He had _let_ them touch him.

He looked over to Yahaba, who was crying, utterly defeated by those jerks at Karasuno. Kentarou would have fought every single one of them in a heartbeat. He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling, but he thought it might have been love. It was certainly as violent as that of his mother and father’s had been.

His fist connected with his face. It felt wrong. He didn’t want to hurt him. He stopped himself from getting down on his hands and knees and cupping his cheeks, seeing if he was alright. Instead, he turned and stormed off.

In the locker rooms, he pounded his fist against the wall until it bled.

Iwaizumi found him there half an hour later, teary-eyed, holding his injured hand. Taking a deep breath, he sat down next to him and examined the damage. He stood and went to get a first aid kit, winding gauze around his hand tightly.

“Why did you hit him?”

Kentarou blinked. Wasn’t it obvious? “I like him.”

The older boy frowned. “Kyoutani-”

“Kentarou.” He corrected angrily. “I hate that name.”

He lowered his voice, speaking gently. “Kentarou,” he began, and then stopped, seemingly not knowing what to say. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Kentarou, have you ever been kissed?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t it...gentle?”

Kentarou frowned. He had no idea what that word even meant. “Gentle?”

Iwaizumi was the one who blinked in surprise this time. He leaned back. “I’m going to get Yahaba, but I’m going to be right outside, okay? If I hear anything that sounds even close to a fight, I’m coming in.”

He disappeared for a few moments, and Kentarou contemplated his words. _Gentle...kiss...was he supposed to be gentle? Supposed to kiss him?_

The time for thinking passed when Yahaba stepped through the door, looking exactly how Kentarou had felt when he was younger, tip-toeing around his parents, weak and afraid.

“You didn’t disagree with me.” He said immediately, stealing any chance of making this better away from himself.

“What?” Yahaba snapped, holding his injured cheek.

“When I said you were shallow. You didn’t disagree. You should think more of yourself than that.”

Yahaba scowled, stalked forward and lifted him to his feet, slamming him against the lockers. “And you think you have the right to lecture me about that, huh?”

Iwaizumi charged into the room, looking ready to split some skulls, but stopped short when he saw the actual scene.

Yahaba drew the attention back to himself by shaking Kentarou wildly. “Huh? What have you been through that would make you know all about _self-worth_? I bet your dad loves you, right? Keeps you close, praises you for all those fights?”

It made him see red, but Kentarou just let out a breath, keeping his eyes fixed on him. He didn’t try to fight back. It wasn’t his place to interrupt. He was the fly on the wall. He was the tiles under their feet. Worthless.

“Maybe you live in a dump, who knows? But it’s gotta be better than being...being treated like trash. They won’t even look at me anymore. Like I don’t even exist.” He lowered Kentarou until his feet were firmly on the floor. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” He left.

Kentarou ached. Iwaizmi looked utterly shell-shocked. Oikawa swung into the room to see if everything was alright.

“What happened?” He asked, a frown on his face.

Iwaizumi turned to him and snapped, “nothing. Keep your nose to yourself, Oikawa.” He shoved him out, then turned back to Kentarou. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Kentarou growled, gathering his things and storming out. What did he know anyway?

A whole week went by, all four of them sharp and on-edge, snapping and snarling at each other during practices. He hated it. He wanted to smooth over their wounds, but it was harder than physical hurt. Finally, Oikawa did something about it.

“Right, none of us are leaving here until we get this sorted out. That includes the rest of you. I’ll go first.” He turned to Iwaizumi. “I don’t like that you pushed me out. I was only trying to help.”

“What are we? Five?”

“Well, we’re all _behaving_ like we’re five, so _yes_.” Oikawa shot back.

The other boy sat on his hands. “Fine. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry in the slightest, but Oikawa accepted it. Then, he turned his attention to Yahaba.

“Why me first?”

“Because he’s probably never done anything like this before. Show him how it’s done.” Oikawa said. The other boy huffed, but had no further protests.

“I’m sorry.” Yahaba said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turned back to Oikawa. “Happy?”

“No. Tell him _why_ you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry for snapping at you. But there...why...” He growled in frustration. “You had no _reason_ to _punch me!_ ”

Kentarou shrank in on himself. He felt bad for it. Really, he did. He wanted Yahaba to know that. But how? Would it really just take a simple apology? He felt like maybe his eyes were wet. Like maybe it was getting harder to swallow. “I like you.”

“What?”

“It’s been so long since I felt scared, and I don’t know, it just...I like you.”

Yahaba blinked at him. “So why did you punch me? If you like me?”

Kentarou knew that there were other people with him, that he was breaking his first, most sacred rule, but it didn’t matter, because he was only talking to Yahaba. “I’ve only known violence. My parents ignored me while they slammed each other into walls. I thought...that’s how you expressed it. Love.”

“Love?”

“I guess? I don’t know. It’s been a while since I felt...um...yeah.”

Yahaba stared at him in silence. They all did. Finally, he took a deep breath. “I’m gay. That’s what I meant earlier. When I had you against the lockers. I’m gay, I told my parents, and they...hate me for it. I...I’m sorry I assumed that...you were close with your dad. That your life was better.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry I hurt you. I promise I won’t do that again. It felt wrong.”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

They both went into a daze, along with their teammates. They were all quiet, just looking at the two of them. Then, Iwaizumi went over to Oikawa.

“Sorry. For real this time. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. You can just have the worst timing sometimes.”

Oikawa laughed it off, and then it all went back to normal again.

They were hidden away in the locker rooms, in a stall, kissing. Their first had been much the same; awkward and filled with teeth, despite Yahaba’s efforts to soften it. They had drifted together over the last few months. Awkward glances turning to accidental brushes of their hands that left them both blushing. Those contacts turning to hand-holding, then hugs, then kisses in the locker rooms when no one else was around.

Yahaba’s arms were wrapped loosely around his waist while Kentarou clung to him like his life depended on it. His fingers dug into his soft shoulders, his lips pressed so harshly they bruised. But it didn’t matter. Yahaba was here, with him, _seeing_ him.

Home life was still like wading through tar, but at least when he was at school he had a team, and a boyfriend, and _friends_. It was all worth it, just for these few stolen moments.

_I knew it would take time for him to warm up. It would take time to undo all the abuse. It took months for me to coax out every little story from his past. But once he’d laid it all at my feet, I began to understand. And then, I fell in love. My own self-worth needed working on – a fact he reminded me of regularly. Together, we got better. Together, we fit like two pieces in a puzzle, like two well-oiled cogs. His lips pressed against mine was the best feeling in the world, one I wouldn’t trade for anything._


End file.
